


Wings

by ludus



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-13
Updated: 2012-07-13
Packaged: 2017-11-09 21:16:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/458529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ludus/pseuds/ludus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sansa has learned how Littlefinger operates and decides to take control. AUish since it takes place post AFFC/ADWD but at the Eyrie, aged up Sansa.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wings

Wind whipped in from the moon door and wrapped around her ankles. Winter was coming in earnest now, and snowflakes floated in on the air, landing to melt on her skin. The snow was cold but her skin felt hot, hotter than it ever had. _My blood is warm,_ she thought. _Northern blood._

She had been coaxing him into the high hall for weeks now so that tonight would feel like the most normal thing in the world. “I want to _fuck_ on the throne,” she had whispered in his ear one night. His eyes had hardened, he had grabbed her by the shoulders and told her that ladies didn’t speak that way. And yet that night she had felt the weirwood scrape against her back as he pushed her up against it. _I’m not a lady, anyways,_ she thought. _I’m Alayne, Alayne Stone, Alayne the bastard, Alayne, just Alayne._

Bastard girls could disappear and no one would notice, no one would know the difference. Bastard girls could run away, they could be sent to brothels, they could be killed or raped or lost forever, and no one would ever come looking. No one would ever know what had become of a girl from the North but him.

She pressed the goblet to her mouth and drank deeply of the wine. _Gods, I hope this is the right cup._ She had worked slowly, deftly. The maester had taken pity on the quiet bastard girl and allowed her to help him when he needed an assistant. It had taken her months, quick seconds stolen alone with his books and papers when he was occupied, until she had found what she needed. It wouldn’t kill him. But it would slow him.

Time was of the essence now, but she moved slowly, without a care. Any deviation from the norm would catch his notice. That was how he had built himself; it was the key to how he played the game. And yet, it was she who was winning now. The wedding was in two weeks. The Lords Declarant were hers. Triumph coursed through her veins. _He has taught,_ she mused, _but I have learned._

His hands wrapped around her waist. She reached up and slipped the tunic from his shoulders, pulled it over his head and tossed it behind her. The wind picked it up and blew it across the floor until it came to rest against a pillar. The drugged wine was just beginning to affect him, and he stumbled slightly as she carefully, slowly, directed his body where she wanted it.

She knew she had to hurry now, but she couldn’t resist drinking it in for one last time. The scar her uncle ( _her dead uncle_ ) had given him when he fought for her mother ( _her dead mother_ ) was white and twisted and ugly even after all these years. She traced it across his chest with one finger, pressed her lips to his neck at the point where it ended, felt his blood pulsing beneath her mouth. And when her hand snaked up to bury the knife in his stomach, she felt his blood pooling on her hand. She let it paint a path down her dress as he sunk to his knees. 

The wound was true. She knew the cartography of his body better than her own, and she had thrust the knife in the center of his belly, twisted it up into his abdomen. There would be no recovery, no new scar for him. It occurred to her that she had simply finished her uncle’s work. She felt an urge to laugh.

He was small and she had grown tall. She kicked, pushed with her feet until he was on the edge of the moon door. His breathing seemed to have stopped completely, and she wondered if he wasn’t dead yet. She lifted her leg for the final kick; she felt his body give way to the abyss. But as he fell, and she began to turn away, his head snapped up, and they locked eyes just as his hand wrapped around her ankle. A terrible face ringed in golden hair seemed to swim up in front of her eyes. Little dove, the queen whispered. And Sansa flew.


End file.
